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RPG Games All Roleplay and Role-play games. Create and play Fantasy and In-Out-Character RPs, "legend of" type and any other RP games.

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Default 11-21-2011, 06:58 PM

"I never played many video games," Ana said.


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Default 11-21-2011, 07:20 PM

"Well, you ought to play more," Diego replied. He was being uncharacteristically friendly towards Ana; he was really starting to like her a lot.


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Default 11-21-2011, 07:27 PM

"Oh, I think I will; aside from helping Tamsin, I don't have much to do. Besides, I'v found that games are more fun and less difficult than I originally imagined," Ana said, offering him a warm smile; she greatly appreciated his curent behavior toward her.


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Default 11-21-2011, 08:03 PM

"I'll show you how to play them."


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Default 11-21-2011, 08:05 PM

"Thank you very much," Ana said. They then arrived at the gaming room.


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Default 11-28-2011, 10:38 AM

*later*

Castiel was up and about, not wanting to stay laying around; though given she'd taken on Diego's migraine, much of her "up and about" was spent holding a pillow over her face when the lights were too bright or the sounds were too loud.



I stare at the girl in the mirror: T-shirt, torn up jeans, no beauty queen.
But the way that you see me, you get underneath me, and all my defenses just fall away, fall away.
I am beautiful with you, even in the darkest part of me. I am beautiful with you;
Make it feel the way it's supposed to be!

You're here with me: Just show me this and I'll believe I am beautiful with you!
Halestorm
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Default 03-06-2012, 10:56 AM

Ooc: I was planning to wait for some contact from Wolfy before posting all this, but my computer's dodgy and I'd rather not lose my work. So I'll spam it now. Spaaam. Also, I apologize for dropping out of this RP near the beginning, but it was kinda beyond my control. I wrote this to justify jumping back in.

Far away in a small, rather decrepit bathroom, Cyril Emmerson toyed with a piece of paper inscribed with black symbols and lines. He'd ducked inside to recast the illusion spells that hid his real face, with its white, dry skin, and burning purple eyes from view. As much as he'd love to show off his permanent halloween costume, it would draw a bit too much attention to be feesible. It wouldn't do to let the poor mortals know that a corpse was walking among them, after all. Just as he'd finished with the spell paper, the bathroom door opened and someone stepped in.

A glance at the mirrow over the sinks in front of him told him who it was; Fido Brannigan, a skinheaded eighteen year-old with tattoos all over his neck, who towered over fourteen year-old Cyril at over six feet tall. His first name was actually a nickname, and it was highly fitting, or so thought Cyril, as Fido had been following him around at random since they'd met. Fido looked at the piece of paper in Cyril's hands. The Revenant had tried to hide it behind his back, but the mirror ruined that plan.

"Nothing important." He lied, stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans. Cyril had been used a few times since joining the BPRD; the higher-ups apparantly had less hang-ups about deploying the possessed corpse of a teenager than a real, living one. His first mission had been dealing with three zombies sighted in a graveyard in Wisconsin. They'd been the annoying contagious kind that tended to spread rapidly with a little bad luck, but but as he was already dead, Cyril had no trouble getting rid of the shambling freaks. The second was locating and capturing a rampaging Salem witch (who was apparently infuriated that her boyfriend had ditched her), and had originally seemed difficult, but had finally been solved when Cyril knocked her into a running jacuzzi, thereby paralyzing her. Running water was the bane of witches.

His third was proving to be the most time-consuming; he'd been told to infiltrate a group of rowdy skinheads who showed signs of involvement with a demonic cult.

It hadn't taken Cyril long to find some proof, but the cult operated on a need-to-know basis and he was still undercover, trying to figure out who or what was in charge before the sh.it hit the fan. It had done so already, of course; the charged summoning circles and horribly mangled corpses lying around them proved demons had been and gone. Several times. While he hadn't been told anything directly, numerous hints and signs led him to believe something was going to happen. Here. Today.

"Concert's starting soon." Said Fido. "That's why I came to find you." He seemed to have let up on the paper. Good. He'd got glimpses of similar bits and pieces a few times, due to Cyril's sloppy guile. He was more or less hoping it wouldn't matter. Fido seemed too stupid to get suspicious over little things like that.

"Give me a minute." Cyril turned back to the sink and pretended to washed his hands to support his excuse. He examined himself in the mirror. The illusion made him look like he had when he was alive, except with the colours wrong. His skin didn't look like dry paper, and was a shade too pink. His eyes were green. His skull was coated with a thin fuzz, which was yellow; he'd been mousy light brown. He'd decided to keep it this way in future, minus the stupid disguise colour. He wondered if Morbidia could show him how to stop his regeneration in his scalp, so he wouldn't have to maintain it. He doubted it, somehow. Magic had its limits, and the field of undead cosmetics wasn't a very well farmed one. Morbidia. She was a Necromancer who worked with the BPRD; unlike her misbegotten peers, she didn't go in for gratuitous nihilism and avoided the unbelievably corrupt behaviour they were known so well for.

He'd begun to change, recently. He realised he'd gone out of control after his rebirth. He'd caused havoc and done some rather unsavory things, and all without feeling sorry- at the time. What was this? Schizo Cyril Emmerson, feeling sorry? He could hardly believe it, but it was true. A faint throb of remorse was present at the back of his head. It had been there for a while now. He'd lied to the BPRD recruitment. The human he'd been in the middle of murdering when they caught him wasn't the first. He'd killed two others before he'd been caught, and consumed their souls. He'd covered up well afterwards. In fairness, he'd been ravening like a Vampire in a human abatoir. Also in fairness, he could have used rats, or something. Now their faces sometimes popped up when he was idle too long.

He looked at Fido in the mirror. The gigantic lump was staring open-mouthed at a crack in the tiled wall. He wasn't like that. He knew it. Morbidia had told him that freshly reborn Revenants lost it for a while. They turned into stone-cold psychopaths who could cut down their own family without breaking their stride or raising an eyebrow. Without a twitch. Their moral compasses disappeared and their feelings died down like embers in a fire going out. They also had the potential to stay that way forever, if they never found their senses or didn't stop rampaging. However, there were treatments. Psychiatry didn't work on the Undead. Poison, and by extention, medication, was useless. But spells could take their place. Morbidia was an expert at working with Undead who still had souls, particularly Revenants. She knew old, rare magic that helped a newly resurrected person get their humanity back in order. She'd used these spells to set Cyril largely straight.

However, they couldn't change the way the person had been in the first place. Cyril grinned at himself in the glass. He was looking forward to the inevitable fight that would of course erupt at some point near the end of this mission. No sort of necromancy could change the fact that he was a violent jacka.ss and made no apologies for his interests. No wonder he'd ended up in a morgue at fourteen. He finished washing his hands.

His smirk turned into a curled lip as he followed Fido out of the bathroom and back through the crowd. He despised these people. He supposed it was rich coming from a soul-devouring Revenant, but he hated skinheads fiercely. It wasn't their behaviour that was the problem- he shared their penchant for raising hell and creating havoc, but the reasons and the way they acted left a dodgy taste in his mouth. The way they claimed superiority so obnoxiously (and believed it) for one thing; they were even worse than Diego. He also had no time for racism. He'd had a few friends of darker skin colours before he'd croaked. He failed to understand the point. He had no problem with violence, of course, but he did draw the line (at least, he did now) at kicking small african american kids in the middle of the street and then bolting when their irate elders came running. The doctrine they claimed to believe in (which they hardly understood anyway, and in fairness, neither did Cyril,) was filled with contradictions and enough stupidity to get even his rotting greymatter aching. Besides, glorifying a group who'd got their as.ses kicked in a war they started was pathetic.

They found the gang of skinheaded youths Cyril had managed to merge and engraciate himself with partially by participating in their misbehaviour, and partially by using the black magic Morbidia had taught him. The two had worked like a charm. Literally. And now he was just of them- or so they idiotically thought.

He scratched his head. Illusions weren't as energy efficient as he liked and it was safer to minimise the number of factors he had to fake, so he had shaved his hair down to stubbly fuzz. He had to admit, he liked it like this. He'd always thought his curls looked a bit stupid, anyway, and they'd earned him a hell's worth of teasing throughout his life. The gaggle of louts were going over the usual banter, which Cyril ignored.

Soon, the concert began. Cyril couldn't pretend he didn't like the music. It was loud, jarring and the sort of stuff sure to draw cops from all over- that is, if they weren't being held up with a series of violent diversions that were always set up during events like this, to buy time. Public arson, bank robbings and mock skirmishes in crowded public places, with lots of gunfire shot over crowds, were all common tactics. Drink, all sorts of drugs and other substances besides were passed around. For an anti-social subculture, skinheads sure knew how to organize a party. Cyril snapped a few needles from Fido and injected himself, then burned the chemicals in his empty veins by concentrating hard. One of the numerous benefits of undeath. He'd never gone near anything hard, before. Good advice from a dealer he'd been friendly with in his past life.

---


I mean a weapon you hold. You have a gun, Tanith has a sword... I want a stick. ~ Valkyrie Cain
Ill buy you a stick for Christmas. - Skulduggery Pleasant

Last edited by AaronShadows : 03-06-2012 at 11:00 AM.
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Default 03-06-2012, 10:58 AM

Ooc: Curse all character limits and the heathen who invented them.

The flare he'd been waiting for happened. Revenants had the potential for strong arcane senses, and with Morbidia's help, he'd developed his skills quickly enough to sense the dark magic resonating from under the stage. He immediately began slipping towards a side door sunk into the ground.

This, however, was difficult. The crowd had started beating the tar out of eachother, as was custome, and getting through the melee wasn't exactly easy. Cyril dropped and swept the legs out from under a tall guy brandishing a knuckleduster, then bolted on before he could get up and look for revenge. He socked a burly skinhead who charged at him in the mouth, then fell back before a return swing could break anything. It took him two or three minutes to kick his way through the fighting like this, and he might not have been able if it wasn't for the fact it was easy to take people by surprise in the chaos, but he eventually found himself standing near the door. Nobody noticed him forcing the latch and slipping inside, closing it behind him.

Inside, the sound of the mayhem was unnaturally subdued. Cyril wondered about that for a moment, then figured that the summoners must have silenced the perimeter so they could chant without distractions. The interior was a large, dim cement affair, like an underground car-park, and was dotted with cement pillars. It was full of loads of crates of different sizes, and a yellowy-orange glow radiated from deeper in. Towards this, Cyril stalked, weaving in and out through the jumble and keeping sound to a minimum by standing on his tiptoes.

He found a chink in the crates that opened onto a clear space, near the center of the cavernous room. It was lit by countless black candles, and surrounded by sleeping bags and camping equipment- it looked like the summoners had been living here for a while, setting up the ritual in advance. This wasn't odd. Magic like this often required lots of preparation.

Six figures stood at the points of a six-pointed star, but outside the circle that surrounded it and behind the black candles. Not stupid, then. The summoning circle was much more complicated than that, however, with other patterns superimposed over the primary one, and lines of symbol language along them. The whole lot was drawn onto the cement floor with blood. He could see the empty jars off to one side, crusted with congealed gore. The scene would have been something from a cheap witch movie if not for the medical bags of anti-coagulant lying around, which was a surprisingly common piece of paraphernalia where blood and magic were concerned.

The head summoner was obvious; she stood bolt upright in electric blue robes, with a peaked hood attached. He found the way the point of the hood curled towards the back of her head silly, but didn't laugh. It cast her face in shadow, except for the eyes, which burned bright red. A tell-tale sign of powerful black magic. Her attire was also trimmed in symbols stitched in with darker blue thread, that shone in the candelight. Fancy, though Cyril.

Cyril pulled the switchblade he'd been carrying around both as a weapon and a part of his cover from his pocket and released the six-inch blade, then slid it up his sleeve, so he could use it as a surprise. Apart from that measure, he decided that subtlety was boring, and calmly stepped out into the candlelight. The mages faltered in their chant, staring at him, until the woman told them to continue. Her voice was surprisingly calm and husky.

She continued her spells with gestures, but stopped chanting. She stared at him. A smile spread across her barely-visible lower face.

"Oh, hello. Have you come to assist us, young man? I was just about to send someone up for help, actually." She purred. Obviously, she mistook him for someone who'd been informed by her cultist minions. Cyril nodded eagerly and grinned, stepping forward. This would help him get in striking distance.

The blue-clad woman nodded at a diamond-shaped space in the middle of the circle. "Stand in that diamond, please, and repeat after me..." she then recited two lines of profane language. Cyril couldn't catch it all, so he asked her to repeat it. She did, going slowly, and still smiling.

Cyril repeated it slowly. "Urell dag var'duk mar-li travmwe, da-ver akmaggag ferkloy-" the Revenant stopped momentarily, feeling queezy. The summoner urged him on. "A little dizziness is normal, dear. Don't pause."

"-Forufd dund fmerlag tor." he finished. She smiled brightly at him. He smiled back, then tried to take a step towards her. His legs wouldn't move.

"What the..." he muttered, surprised. The summoner's smile turned into a peeling laugh.

"Oh please, don't act surprised. You've done a shoddy job of hiding your presence. I've had you figured since Fidorellian caught you casting those spells." she explained. Cyril became aware of movement behind him, and turned his head to see Fido emerging from the mess of boxes. The chanters continued ranting their harsh spells, ignoring the events transpiring around them completely. Fido grinned at Cyril, showing too many teeth for the Revenant to be happy with. The woman made a flicking upwards gesture, and his illusion disintegrated.

Cyril wasn't beaten yet, however. He couldn't move, but he was sure the binding trick the bit.ch had tricked him into casting on himself would expire soon. It might be powered by her, but cast by him. Such a short incantation would have been broken in a heartbeat by the likes of Morbidia, but Cyril didn't possess the expertise to figure out what the blue-clad hag had done. He didn't need to be in striking distance to inflict damage.

He started a chant of his own, curling is fingers into the positions his tutor had drilled into him. She hadn't taught him many spells in the short time he'd known her, but she had enlightened him to the bread and butter of every necromancer's arsenal- the shadow bolt. As he finished the eleven-syllable chant, the tiny shadows in his palms enlarged, became tangible, and darkened. A purplish tinge appeared around their edges as they swirled in his hands. The lead summoner watched him casting his spell impassively; she made no attempt to run away, duck, dodge, or otherwise avoid the incoming attack. Cyril clapped his hands together and threw the bolt like a baseball. It flitted across the three meters of space between them within seconds.

Then everything went to hell. The bolt slammed into a blue-white shield that materialised over his target, then rebounded back and narrowly missed his head, disintegrating the corner of a box on the other side of the clear space. The woman almost dismissively waved her hand, releasing yet another of the pesky precast spells she had up her sleeve. His vision began to dim. He let his knife fall back into his hand and tried to hurl it at her, for all the good it would have done, but he was becoming paralyzed. It was all he could do to reach into his pocket and press his BPRD panic button before his vision died completely. The last thing he saw before it ceased was Fido, eyes now yellow, walking towards him. Then he felt the disguised demon picking him up with one hand and pulling him clear of the circle, careful not to smudge the patterns on the ground. His consciousness failed completely and he plummeted into something deeper and darker than sleep.


I mean a weapon you hold. You have a gun, Tanith has a sword... I want a stick. ~ Valkyrie Cain
Ill buy you a stick for Christmas. - Skulduggery Pleasant

Last edited by AaronShadows : 03-06-2012 at 11:03 AM.
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Default 03-06-2012, 10:58 AM

~~~

Meanwhile, back at the BPRD, Morbidia bounced into the open front door of the waste-whatever-it-was-she-couldn't-remember plant that stood over the base. At a glance, you'd never have guessed she was a master necromancer; she was a petite goth girl in a corsetted shirt and skirt, wearing leather boots that came up over her knees. Her entire outfit was black. Of course. Her hair, which she had tied into two large tails that trailed down her shoulders from behind each ear. Her nose was far too small for the rest of her face, making her look a bit like some kind of strange dog. She wasn't a jaw-dropping, head-spinning stunner, but nor was she ugly by any stretch of the imagination. She had gone to huge lengths with her appearance, as it was one of her favourite hobbies. Her face was covered in meticulously done makeup that made her look paler than she really was, and she'd agonized with bleach and dye for hours to get the ends of her hair to fade from black, into grey and then stark white at the very tips. She adjusted her velvet choker as she walked towards the lift. It was a notch too tight. She'd randomly picked it up in the shops, because she was a compulsive buyer.

When people thought goths, or, if they'd been informed, Necromancers, they generally thought of a miserable, darkly-dressed and deeply unhappy individual who obsessed over death and other morbid things. You'd think that exactly if you saw Morbidia from behind- until she turned around and the perpetual little smile on her black-painted lips became visible. In reality, Morbidia was very happy with her life, and delighted in the little things that fueled her cheer. Her appearance, for one thing. The friends she held dear. And the sun. Yes, she liked sunlight. Loved it, in fact. Most people wouldn't believe her, but then, they didn't know her very well. In fact, she wished the BPRD had a HQ up high and above ground. With windows. Oh well. Best not to dwell on her bad luck.

She hopped off the lift before it reached the bottom, and whistled as she strolled through the base. She couldn't whistle in tune at all, but what the hell. She liked doing it anyway.

There'd been a time when she hadn't been so cheerful, or quite so immaculately groomed. Morbidia had been born into a necromantic cult, one of hundreds and hundreds that dotted the globe. Many of the large cults had numbers in the thousands, and many more had insinuated themselves in major religions, where they slowly won people around to their ideals and then indoctrinated them. The cults were just that; cults. The only difference was the magic the members practiced. All the usual checks were still there. Mind control. Closed community. Questionable moral standards. Greedy leaders. Et cetera. But she'd found her way out in her late teens. However, the guilt that came from the things they'd forced her to do wasn't so easy to leave behind. They murdered in cold blood, twisted the souls of the dead, and otherwise tortured anyone they could get their hands on. Literally, in fact. According to one of the clerists in her former cult, torturing somebody before killing them and binding their spirit caused greater release of energy. Years later, she'd found this to be a lie. The sick bast.ard had just enjoyed hurting his victims.

She was in her twenties now. After she'd escaped, she'd found her way to and worked through her issues with a psychologist who knew about the magical world, and was a contact of the BPRD. The man had convinced her that her crimes weren't her fault; she had no choice in the matter, and that she shouldn't blame herself. Slowly, she'd come to believe it, but she still felt that she had a responsibility as a survivor to try to help others. Disappearing into the night with all of the necromantic knowledge she'd learned in the cult (or stolen from it during her escape) would have been cowardly. She'd told him this, and he'd put her through to the BPRD.

Morbidia's name was the subject of much intrigue. It was the whacky name her enthralled parents had given her; many necromancer cults made their acolytes drop their last names and take a new one to use. Hers had been one such group. As she'd been born into it, she had no idea what her parents' last names might have been, and she didn't know what else she could call herself, so she just kept Morbidia. It was hers. Her identity. Forget about the connotations. She was keeping it. And the irony was fitting and kind of funny.

As a necromancer, she used spells that could control and bind the dead, but she instead of enslaving them, she mainly differed from the cultists she'd been taught by in that she made deals with ghosts, or spirits trapped in limbo. She had the power to help these lost souls find the afterlife through the mist of the hereafter; it wasn't really magic, though. She just talked to them and helped them get over whatever kept them unable to pass on, using psychology skills she'd picked up from her own docter, who she'd become good friends with, and later in a college course he helped her attend. She had a rudimentery high school education, because the cultists had made their minor members attend the local school to avoid suspicion or unwanted attention from civilian authorities. Back then, she'd been a bedraggled and slightly ugly little girl with a two-mile stare and a hammering stutter on the rare occassions anyone spoke to her. She would have been bullied, but the cult kids tended to just huddle together in total silence at lunchtimes, which made sure everyone was too terrified to go near them.

She'd performed poorly, obviously, almost never doing her homework or even paying attention in class, but the psychologist had helped her to fill the gaps in her education record and get accepted into her course. Necromancy had many forms and was a very expansive and complicated silence. There were many things you could draw power from; harvesting souls and using them for fuel was one option, but Morbidia never used it. It was a form of violation far more grievous than any mortal sin. Another was channeling the death energy that was released when a living creature died. While this energy was often lacking unless you were around fresh corpses, it could be captured and stored. Morbidia kept reserves of it on her person; the black ring on the middle finger of her right hand, and the small onyx studs in each ear, for example. Dense material was the best place to concentrate the energy, so Morbidia alternated between different items of jewellery, and sometimes small ornamental weapons. The power within made the dark stones shine purple rather than white when the light hit them. Other sources of power were strong negative emotions, which Morbidia was not able to draw significant kick from, as she had long since dealt with her own depressing thoughts. It was handy when dealing with aggressive necromancers, though, as she could drain and direct theirs. And they had negative feelings in spades.

Morbidia beamed at Ana as she passed her, then skipped into the control room. Oddly, nobody was home. The necromancer glanced at her watch, which matched the rest of her attire, and realised it was lunchtime. Everybody ran off to their break, it seemed.

As she was about to leave again, she noticed a small blinking red light on a computer screen. She leaned in to examine it, reading the line of text.

Agent 3894. Ghost. Cyril Emmerson.

And the light marked "distress" was blinking a steady red. All the other lights on the screen were green. Morbidia's mouth dropped open. Cyril was her protog; he'd turned up at the base not long ago, and she'd taken him under her wing. She'd grown intensely fond of him, and had cast the spells that reversed his mental deterioration. She had taught him spells and had become fond of her diminutive, purple-eyed friend in the process. She had helped him prepare for his missions. One of which he might now be in lethal danger on. Her frantic worry showed on her face as she bolted out of the room and ran through the base, demanding to know where someone, anyone important was. Fern. The professor. Whoever the hell.


I mean a weapon you hold. You have a gun, Tanith has a sword... I want a stick. ~ Valkyrie Cain
Ill buy you a stick for Christmas. - Skulduggery Pleasant

Last edited by AaronShadows : 03-06-2012 at 11:02 AM.
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